The Honorable Officer (31 page)

She proceeded with her usual confession of her sins but broke off after a few moments. “Is lust a sin? When one lusts for one’s own husband?”

“You are not married,” said the priest, angrily.

“I am. He’s the son of le Baron de la Brosse. His sister is la Comtesse de Bures. And he’s a colonel in the army. He was in Franche-Comté when I took Ondine to him. He didn’t believe me either, at first, about Ondine’s life being in danger.”

“Lying to a priest is most definitely a sin, Mademoiselle,” said the priest, warningly.

“Madame. I have never lied to a priest,” she answered.

He was just starting to talk when she heard a crash in the showroom. Finally, they had come to save her.

She stood up as the priest went to the office door and threw it open.

Rushing to the door, she saw shadowy people jumping around, running around, and she heard the noises of furniture breaking, and then a musket went off and she screamed.

A hand grabbed her arm, and a knife flashed past her face and poked her throat.

“Now,” said Bernard, right by her ear. “You will all witness my marriage to Hélène de Bonnefoi.”

The priest stuttered something, and Bernard turned toward him, pricking her neck slightly with the knife. “Now,
mon père
.”

“We will have to stand at some sort of altar.” The priest’s voice wavered. “I need a place to set my prayer book.”

Someone brought a writing desk, and someone situated them in front of it, with their side to the rest of the room. Bernard held her arm so tightly she knew she would have bruises. His other hand held the long knife to her ribs.

Hélène’s uncle appeared at her shoulder. She squinted to make out his sour expression. There was a movement past his shoulder, and she thought it was Henri, judging by his height, hair color, and dark brown coat. She wished for her eyeglasses, then smiled at herself, since wishing to see was not the highest priority at the moment.

She glanced toward Bernard, not caring so much about his expression but hoping that someone from her new family would grab him away.

The priest began reading the ceremony, and after a minute or two Bernard said, “Jump to the important parts.”

The priest paused, then said, stuffily, “It isn’t official unless I do it right.”

There was a movement past Bernard, but when Hélène leaned forward to try to see who it was, Bernard jabbed the knife against her, poking the point between the stays and into her side.

The priest read on, droning slowly. He stopped altogether just before the part that Hélène realized was where they would actually be married to one another.

The priest took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He nodded.

A voice said, “Release her, Ménine. I have better aim than your thugs, and the barrel is three inches from the back of your head, so I don’t think I could miss if I tried. I only do not want to get blood on a priest or my wife.”

Jean-Louis.

Bernard dug the knife into her ribs a little further, and Hélène gasped at the pain.

“Keep reading,
mon père
,” said Bernard. “If she has to die, it will be after I marry her. I will inherit her part of the manufactory, and then I will kill your daughter, Monsieur le Colonel, so she cannot inherit from her grandfather. Then I will kill her grandfather, whose will leaves his portion to my father. And my father is ill.”

Ill from too much wine, or from poison? Hélène wondered.

The priest stared at Hélène, at least she thought he was staring. He cleared his throat nervously as she felt a trickle of liquid run down her right side. Blood. Her head spun. Her field of vision—already blurred and warped without her eyeglasses, narrowed.

“Read on!” shouted Bernard.

Hélène heard the pages rustle, and then the priest leaned across the table. “I will not go forward until you stop poking the poor girl with that knife.” The priest’s voice shook.

Bernard eased the knife out of her dress just slightly, and the blood flowed more freely down her side. Her head spun. She thought of how Ondine went limp when anyone tried to pick her up against her will. Hélène took a deep breath and collapsed away from Bernard, half willfully, half fainting. She flopped sideways as Bernard’s hand grasped her arm tighter, and then she slid away from him and thumped to the floor.

Shouts and bangs erupted all around her.

She didn’t quite faint. In fact, as she lay on the floor and took a deep breath, she felt stronger. Someone grabbed her, and she swung her free arm and smacked him hard in the face.

“Come here,
ma fille
. Under the table,” said the priest.

She crawled with him, her side burning and her skirts tangling around her legs.

She shivered and peered out, trying to see what was happening.

“I am so sorry,
ma fille
,” said the priest. “I should have locked the door of the office.”

“He told you I was going to lie,” she said, only half paying attention to him.

A glint of glass on the floor brought her attention down again and she realized her eyeglasses were lying just a foot away. She grabbed them and put them on. The movement made the cut in her side throb, but she reached into her pocket, pulled out her tiny knife, and opened it. It was silly and puny, but she felt better with it in her hand as she scanned the room.

Henri and some grooms were tying up two assassins.

Jean-Louis rolled on the floor with Bernard, the latter’s knife clutched between them. Fourbier stood over them, trying to grab Bernard and aiming kicks at him, but connecting half the time with Jean-Louis.

Hélène crawled out from under the table, yanking her skirt away from the priest, who tried to hold her back. Her head spun, but she lunged forward anyway.

“No, Hélène!” cried Henri, but she had already reached Bernard, who was forcing the knife down toward Jean-Louis.

She tried to shout, “No!” but it came out as a whisper. She stabbed blindly at Bernard’s back with her tiny knife. Once. Twice. Three times. He twisted away, yelping, allowing Jean-Louis to punch him and wrench the knife away. The others moved in, knocking her out of the way as they grabbed Bernard’s arms and subdued him.

She sat on the floor, staring at her bloodied knife. Her hand shook, and she dropped it.

Jean-Louis lay on the floor, gasping for breath. She crawled toward him, afraid he was hurt. He scrambled toward her.

“Hélène,” he gasped as he gathered her close, his harsh breathing and pounding heart reassuring her.

“Oh, Jean-Louis,” she said, shaking all over.

He fumbled with the hooks and ties of her dress, crying, “Fourbier! To me!”

She tried to hold up her bodice, but he soon had it open and the side of her chemise torn to reveal the area where Bernard’s knife had cut her.

Fourbier touched it gently, dabbing away the blood. She whimpered.

“Shhh,” said the valet. “It’s just a scratch,
mon colonel
. I’ll dress it as best I can here, and we can care for it better in your father’s home.”

“Where’s Ondine? Where is she?” Hélène asked.

“Monsieur Emmanuel has her in the carriage,” said Fourbier. “Your husband tied ribbons and lace on the window bars to signal us. We pulled the bars off, and he lifted the girl out and climbed out after.”

“Manu will be sorry he missed a fight,” said Jean-Louis, his voice sounding more normal.

“He can have my place next time,” said Hélène, acerbically.

Jean-Louis clutched her closer and laughed. Fourbier managed a grin, and Hélène finally smiled slightly, too.

“I’ll destroy you, de Cantière!” shouted Bernard Ménine from where he lay face down on the floor, his hands and feet bound. “The company should be mine! Amandine was mine. I was meant to inherit it all.”

Jean-Louis rose to his feet and walked to Bernard. “As it happens, one-third of the factory was always my wife’s.”

“Your wife is dead. My Amandine…” said Bernard.

“No, Bernard. I am his new wife,” said Hélène, holding her bodice closed. “And one-third of the manufactory was always mine, even though my uncle hid it from me.”

“I only found that out a few months ago,” said Bernard, trying to roll over to his back. “And you are not married.”

“We were married almost two weeks ago in Poitiers,” said Hélène, “but I never would have married you, even if we hadn’t been.”

“I am sorry about that, Madame,” said the priest.

He wiped his brow, seated on a chunky, armless chair, his rumpled, dusty black robes spread around him. “They told me you would say anything to get out of it. It wouldn’t have been the first time a girl tried to avoid the marriage arranged by her guardian.”

Hélène scoffed. “Of course I would have said anything to get out of it. Bernard has always been cruel. And my guardians have been stealing from me ever since my parents died.”

Her aunt and uncle protested from the other side of the room, but Henri stepped between them and her and crossed his arms.

“Of course they have,” said Bernard, his tone sneering even as he lay on the floor. “Your uncle has terrible business sense. The company’s been gradually losing business ever since your father died. He rejects everything my father wants to change.”

“Was your father drunk when he told you that?” demanded Hélène, surprising everyone, including herself with her bitter tone. “I doubt he’s been inside the factory in years.”

Just then, a great many horses clattered into the street in front of the manufactory and, within moments, two men rushed in, swords in hand. When they saw everything was calm, they held up their hands to halt those behind them and sheathed their swords.

The Baron de la Brosse, Jean-Louis’ father, stepped in after them, a jaunty grin on his face. “Ah, excellent! I thought you might have finished with the little problem by the time we got here, but I wanted to be sure.”

Jean-Louis bowed before taking his father’s hands. “Thank you, Papa.”

His father smiled broadly at him. “Now that was not so hard, was it? Asking for help and receiving it gracefully?”

Fourbier finished lacing Hélène up and helped her stand. “You shouldn’t tease him, Beau-Papa,” she reproved.

The baron grinned and took her hands. “And you,
ma fille
. I hope all is well with you? And where is my granddaughter?”

“Manu has her outside,” said Hélène.

“I’ll ask him to bring her in,” said Henri, bowing slightly.

“Ask, not tell.” The baron’s eye twinkled with amusement. “What a polite brother our Henri has become.”

Within a minute, Manu wove through the crowd of guards standing in clusters inside and outside the manufactory, clutching a bundle of cloaks and blankets. He shoved the bundle at Jean-Louis. “She has eaten all my biscuits and won’t stop asking for you two.”

Jean-Louis lifted her, and a blanket slid away so Ondine’s arms could go around his neck. Hélène sighed at the sight of the two people she loved most together.

“Oui, chérie,” Jean-Louis was whispering to his daughter who was babbling in his ear. “Everything’s all right now.”

“Tata Nénène?” Ondine said, leaning back, making him bobble her slightly.

“Right here,
ma petite
chérie,” said Hélène, reaching for her niece.

“Maman Nénène now,” said Jean-Louis.

Hélène held the girl close. Her daughter.

****

Fourbier was sure no one else noticed that Henri didn’t return. He saw Henri outside, speaking earnestly to a large man, apparently a member of the Paris Guard. They were several yards from the other men, separated by the crowd of horses that blocked the street, their heads bent toward each other in a way that spoke of old acquaintance.

Henri stood up straight suddenly, angry or offended. As he turned back toward the factory, the other man grasped his sleeve, pleading. Henri listened.

Fourbier recognized the impassioned pleading of a lover when he saw it. The man was taller than Henri and his shoulders broad.
My last lover was bigger and stronger than me
, Henri had said.

Fourbier wished for a view of the man’s face, though it was likely he was more handsome than a short, thin tailor, too. He strode into the factory and found a corner to sulk in. He knew the colonel and his wife and daughter might need him, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about them, surrounded as they were by family and a dozen loyal servants.

He glanced up from his boots as the Guard led Ménine and his thugs out. An old man, Ménine the elder, from the look of him, arrived and departed.

Fourbier tried to think about the shine on his boots and how he needed new ones, really. But all he could think was that Henri had not returned. That man outside must be his old lover, or maybe another potential one, though that would be a coincidence, that his old lover and his prospective one were both Paris Guards. His old lover was also his possible future lover.

“Tomorrow, Fourbier,” the colonel said next to him, jolting him to attention. “If you are still leaving my employ, I believe tomorrow will be the last day.”

Fourbier nodded, gritting his teeth in silence.

“In the meantime, could you make sure that the manufactory’s account books are delivered to my wife’s lawyer’s office? I shall be going over them at the first possible moment. I’ll need Henri for that.”

The colonel took a few steps and signaled to Henri, who had just entered the factory, his expression stormy but determined.

“Are you still taking Fourbier?” the colonel asked.

Henri stared at him. Fourbier looked away, not able to meet his lover’s eyes, not when he didn’t know where he stood.

The colonel scowled. “Was that Paul-Bénédicte? Your old valet?”

Henri’s eyes narrowed. They all knew “valet” was a code word for lover.

“Because if you are playing with Fourbier’s heart, Henri, I will not forgive it,” the colonel grumbled, cheekbones pink.

Fourbier’s heart seized.

Henri stepped back, his eyes darting from the colonel to Fourbier. He composed his face and raised an eyebrow.

“I hoped to hire you to oversee the accounts and Fourbier to oversee the artistic side of things, here at the manufactory. I would want the two of you to be on amicable terms,” the colonel said.